


A Point Subtly Made

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Autistic Sherlock, Case Fic, Dominant!John, First Time, Johnlock Roulette, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:32:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4905562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't help noticing that Sherlock has gotten decidedly more 'handsy' over the period of time they've known one another, and he wonders whether this might mean something and Sherlock is simply too shy to come out and say it. But, Sherlock, shy? No, that's surely a foolish idea, isn't it?</p><p>KinkMeme fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Point Subtly Made

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written pre-season 3, set pre-Reichenbach, for this kinkmeme prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?view=126473921#t126473921
> 
> Previously posted at [my LiveJournal.](http://iguana-dog.livejournal.com/4536.html)

"Come look. The vantage point is very narrow."

John approached to where Sherlock was standing at the end of a corridor in the tall block of flats they were exploring. Someone had been badly wounded by an assailant wielding a compound hunting bow, but no one had seen the attacker despite the broad emptiness of the hallways in the place.

"The shot was made from right here," Sherlock said with certainty, his arm pointing a straight line towards the distant doorway where the injury had occurred.

"That's quite a shot," John remarked, squinting in the dim lighting. "Are you sure? I can't even see the doorway--"

Sherlock abruptly stepped back from his position, moved behind John, and gripped him by the hips, pushing him a bit roughly into the spot that Sherlock had formerly occupied.

"Whoa!" John exclaimed, "No need to grab. I've got legs."

Sherlock looked mildly annoyed, but ignored John's protest and instead pointed down the corridor again, moving close to John so the angle of his arm was easy to follow. "There, do you see it?"

John could see the intersecting corridor in the distance, but no doorway. "No..." he shook his head. Sherlock's hands placed themselves on his shoulders this time, and gave a gentle push to the right, which John followed.

"It's very narrow, as I said. This person was an expert archer." 

John leaned his head almost to the wall next to him, and finally saw the small window of clear view that had afforded the hunter his shot. "Damn good shot," he murmured. "How do you know it was taken from here?"

"Based on the angle of the entry wound it's highly unlikely it was done from the other passage. He was opening his door to pick up the newspaper. He wouldn't have been turned so dramatically to the left." One hand dropped from John's shoulder as Sherlock gesticulated, but the other remained in place until the detective skipped off down the hallway, following another idea.

"Come on, John! I've got something!"

John hurried after him, the weight of phantom hands still pressing into his body's memory.

* * *

"John? Could you come here a moment?"

Sherlock was seated at the kitchen table with the chemical he'd been synthesising all afternoon. John appeared next to him, curious.

"What is it?"

"I need to test this on human skin, and I've already used it on myself, so if you could just roll up your sleeve..." He filled a small pipette with the transparent liquid.

"Right. And what exactly is in this stuff?" John asked with a sceptical look, making no move to do as Sherlock asked.

"Nothing dangerous. It will react to certain species of fungus on the skin by changing colour - or so I hope."

"Fungus? What makes you think I have a fungus?" John was a teeny bit insulted.

"Everyone has fungi all over their bodies. Now will you please roll up your sleeve?"

"Really? Didn't learn that one in med school. That is actually disgusting," John remarked, but acquiesced to the request, rolling his sleeve up to expose his elbow. Sherlock gently gripped his arm, positioning it how he wanted it, then began carefully placing drops of the liquid in a series of dots down John's arm. He ended with a small pool in the palm of John's hand.

John had thought that Sherlock would release his arm when finished applying the liquid, but the limb remained firmly clasped in the warm grip as Sherlock glanced back and forth between the small clock ticking away the seconds on the table, and the dots on John's arm. Sherlock didn't speak and John did not want to interrupt his concentration.

In such a situation even a few seconds will seem to expand to vast size, and Sherlock waited for the reaction for two full minutes, leaving John searching for somewhere to rest his eyes. He examined the large hand currently cradling his lower arm, a fresh red scar on the thumb evidencing a scrape that had clearly not been properly disinfected. He almost voiced his disapproval, but thought better of it, as Sherlock had never paid much attention to his insistence on taking care of minor injuries, and likely wouldn't appreciate a reminder in the middle of testing a new chemical.

He glanced up at Sherlock's face and the brow was now furrowed, displeased at the lack of change in the small drops on John's skin. Finally, as the clock ticked into the last fifteen seconds of the second minute, a greyish tinge became noticeable in the liquid near John's elbow, slowly deepening to a greener hue.

"Ha!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Perfect!" He glanced up at John, grinning briefly before schooling his features somewhat. John smiled back. That look was infectious.

"It worked as you hoped, then?"

"Yes, it did, at last. I may not have left it on my own skin long enough, initially." Sherlock was grabbing another, larger pipette and dipping it into a beaker filled with more clear liquid, still retaining his hold on John's forearm.

"What's that?" John asked with slight concern.

"Water," Sherlock replied. "This brew of mine may be non-irritating, but it shouldn't be left on the skin, all the same." He dribbled water liberally down John's arm and hand, then used a bit of blotting paper to softly wipe all the liquid away. John couldn't help noticing that Sherlock's fingers trailed down his skin a little before his arm was released, but when Sherlock immediately turned and began jotting down notes in a pad on the table he dismissed the thought as foolish.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, without looking up.

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

* * *

John shivered again and pulled his parka's fur-lined hood closer around his face. His shuddering breath came out in a cloud before him. Sherlock was standing by the frost-etched window in the hut's small door, gazing intently out at the glittering white landscape beneath a full moon. John glanced over at the cast-iron wood stove, its interior dark and as cold as the rest of the hut, and wistfully wished for some matches.

They couldn't risk a fire, as they were awaiting the appearance of the person who had been poaching game from the estate for months now. It would be wonderfully easy to track him in the freshly-fallen snow, Sherlock had assured John, and their long adventure in the Russian wilderness would soon come to an end. John had been glad to hear it, for as fascinating as the case had been, he didn't relish the thought of spending a winter wading through waist-deep snow and sleeping on a sagging, squeaking bunk bed.

John stood up from the faded sofa and stamped his feet to bring some blood back into them, shaking his arms and flexing his fingers in their fur-lined gloves. Sherlock turned to look at him for a moment, then looked to the thermometer he'd hung next to the door.

"You shouldn't be shivering," he said to John.

John huffed a cloud of a laugh. "Shouldn't I?"

"Our parkas are suitable for temperatures 28 degrees lower than the current temperature in the hut."

"Well, I _have_ been sitting on my arse for most of the night," he replied, watching Sherlock's breaths hanging in the frigid air, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the glass. 

Sherlock looked thoughtful, his eyes moving around the hut, finally stopping on the sawhorse in the corner on which a rusty cross-cut saw rested, next to the pile of firewood. John watched as he removed the saw and brought the sawhorse in front of the door, fetching a blanket from his bunk and folding it onto the top bar of the sawhorse.

"Come," he said to John, who approached automatically, even while wondering what his friend was up to. He looked at Sherlock questioningly.

"Remove your parka," Sherlock commanded, unzipping his own.

"What? Why?" John was bewildered by this demand, and felt his face going a bit red.

"We're sharing mine," Sherlock stated simply, pulling his left glove off and stowing it in a pocket.

"I'm not _that_ cold, Sherlock," John protested.

"I don't need you developing hypothermia right when we're about to catch our poacher." Sherlock pulled his left arm out of its parka sleeve and beckoned John to him.

"I'm not developing hypothermia. I _would_ know."

"Humour me."

John sighed with feigned long suffering, but smiled a little. It was quite pleasant, actually, to have the usually rather distant man showing concern for his well-being. He unzipped his parka and hung it on one end of the sawhorse as Sherlock directed, removed his right glove, then Sherlock sat on the sawhorse and held his parka open for John. John sat, his whole right side pressing to Sherlock's left, and between them they wrestled the massive parka shut, fastening only the snaps to allow them to escape quickly when their quarry was spotted. They used John's parka to cover their legs more fully.

Sherlock's left arm found a comfortable resting place draped over John's shoulders, his bare hand melding with the warm fabric of John's outermost shirtsleeve. John wanted to warm his own hand similarly, but couldn't comfortably rest his arm over Sherlock's lofty shoulders, so he wrapped his arm around the man's waist instead, hand coming to rest on the top of a lean thigh.

Sherlock glanced over at John momentarily at the contact, but quickly resumed his vigil out the window. John was slightly disappointed at the lack of reaction, but forced himself to forget it and concentrate on the task at hand. They trained their eyes on the broad, shining clearing in front of the hut as the moon sailed through perfect blackness above. The branches of the trees, blanketed in white, glistered almost magically, and John soon found a meditative pleasure in contemplating the winter landscape, his serenity increased by the proximity of his friend. The warmth radiating from Sherlock was intensely pleasurable after the bone-chilling cold John had been fighting off all day, and John had no objection when Sherlock pulled him a bit closer and squeezed him arm slightly.

It would be a long night, yes, but at least it would be a comfortable one.

* * *

When John made plans to go out for celebratory drinks with Mike Stamford after Mike was given a pay raise at his job, he didn't expect Sherlock to request to come along. But that is what Sherlock did.

"I would like to take notes on the acute effects of alcohol intoxication for future reference."

"Well, the more, the merrier. I'm sure Mike will be happy to see you."

Mike was indeed happy to see the pair of them, hell, he was happy about most things on this particular evening. He praised the pub they were in as the finest in the land and ushered his friends to his favourite table in the back, under the mounted deer's antlers. The place was pleasantly warm despite the light summer rain pattering down outside, the lamps shining from the wood-beam ceiling dim enough for comfort, and the sounds of people chatting and laughing away provided a pleasant background noise.

"Who's having what?" Mike asked, "First round's on me!"

"Hmmm," John mused, "Bring me something malty. You pick."

"All right, then," Mike agreed, "And for you?" he turned to Sherlock.

"I haven't been inebriated in some time," Sherlock said hesitantly.

"You've been drunk before?" John asked curiously, trying to imagine it.

"Yes, once. In university. Not a fantastic experience."

"Getting aled with us is a guaranteed good experience, isn't it, John?" Mike smiled at the two of them.

"Right you are," John agreed. To Sherlock he said, "We'll get you some crisps so it doesn't hit you all at once. I think you should get a stout." He thought his friend would probably appreciate a more dark and flavourful drink, rather than something mild.

"I agree, I think he'd like a dry stout or a chocolate stout, maybe," Mike judged. 

"I have no preference," Sherlock said.

"A chocolate stout it is!" 

Mike soon returned from the bar balancing three pints in his hands, and then scurried back to retrieve the basket of freshly-made crisps. 

"Have some of those first, to coat your stomach," John advised Sherlock, pointing to the crisps, then taking a sip of his pint. Sherlock eyed the greasy spirals of potato dubiously, but took John's recommendation just the same. Mike sprinkled some vinegar on the crisps and had some himself. Soon enough, Sherlock picked up his pint and had an experimental sip as John and Mike looked on.

"What do you think?" John asked him, smiling.

"Not unpalatable," Sherlock decided, and took another, longer sip. 

"I think it's a winner!" Mike pronounced, and grinned at John, who grinned back.

"We'll bring him round yet," said John. Sherlock smiled a little self-consciously. 

As it turned out, the more Sherlock drank, the more he liked the crisps. And the more he liked the crisps, the more he needed something to wash them down with. And the more he washed them down, the less he minded being in a pub. It was quite a decent place, in fact.

It seemed mere moments to Sherlock before they were laughing and stumbling together out the door, having been informed by the publican that they were done for the night. Sherlock was a little sad for the evening to be ending, but his thoughts were redirected when Mike grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously, thanking him for coming out to the pub with him. And then Mike was gone and it was just John pulling his arm in the direction of Baker Street.

Sherlock was very large and very drunk. Drunkerer than John, maybe. He was slurring medical words to describe his own current condition, which made John laugh.

"Ataxia, slurrrd speesh, you-fore-ee-ahh... Wha' are yoo laffing abou'?"

"You, Sherrock!" John giggled, and grabbed his friend impulsively in a hug, which nearly sent them both toppling. They managed to keep their feet after a bit of swaying and stumbling, and ended up just holding onto each other, giggling. 

John suddenly felt a hot-lipped kiss being pressed to his temple and froze for a moment with surprise. Who knew Sherlock could be so affectionate, much less when pissed off his arse? John would have suspected him to be a morose drunk. Well, it was certainly a good surprise, he decided.

"Come on, Sherrock," he said, pulling his best mate's arm, "Less go 'ome fore we fall down'n'get arrested."

* * *

"Nope, can't make it," John stated, after his fourth attempt to jump and grasp the lowest limb of the ancient oak that Sherlock was already in. His fingertips would brush the side of the large branch, but he couldn't get an actual grip over the top of it. Sherlock frowned down at him.

"What a pity you're not taller," he commented.

"Oh, do shut up," John retorted, giving Sherlock a look that indicated that he wasn't in the mood for 'short' jokes. He wanted to be helpful, just the same. "I can stay down here and explore round the roots--"

"No," Sherlock immediately vetoed, "I'll be all day up here if you don't assist me."

They were planning to search the monumental tree for knotholes or other hiding places in which the ancestor of the landowner had likely hidden a pile of Spanish gold. It would be quite the task, considering the sheer size of the aged plant, which had a trunk so large it would have required seven men to encircle it with their arms.

"I'm coming down," Sherlock warned, and John backed up to give him space to land. "I'll just give you a boost," Sherlock said to John and they moved into position beneath the limb before Sherlock crouched and took a firm hold around John's hips, using all the strength in his legs to push himself up to his full height again. He gasped with the effort.

"Ah! For being so short," he grunted, "you're remarkably heavy."

"Oh, really," John responded as he scrabbled for a good hold of the thick limb, "Well, I've always wondered how you manage to stay upright with such a fat head."

"I could drop you."

"And then I'd punch you."

There was a pause. "True."

They both made it into the tree after a bit of acrobatic manoeuvring, and whilst Sherlock was occupied in gaining a higher limb, John took a moment to catch his breath and observe the landscape. The trees were beginning to turn to blazing yellows and reds, and the crisp air felt to John's lungs like a cold swim on a hot day. He could smell a distant bonfire and wondered if their employer might reward them with some wassail, or at least hot cocoa, when they were finished with their job.

"John!" Sherlock startled John out of his reverie. "Hurry up."

John grimaced at him, but turned to find good foot- and handholds on the knobbly trunk.

~

One small cache of Spanish gold, silver, and gemstones, and two delicious mugs of wassail later, John and Sherlock found themselves back in their room at the bed and breakfast in the village, changing out of their dusty, scuffed-up clothes.

John had just pulled off his jumper and turned to drop it into the hold-all on his bed when he caught sight of Sherlock by the other bed, who was standing with his back turned, wearing only a pair of stylish black briefs, and folding his clothes to put them away. John's eye was immediately drawn to a large abrasion on Sherlock's right shoulderblade that looked like it might be bleeding a little. The bark of the tree had certainly roughed them up a bit as they'd made their way around the hardy plant. John dug through his hold-all for the first-aid kit he'd brought.

"Sherlock," he said, approaching the other man, "Let me just clean up that scrape on--"

Sherlock started at the sound of John's proximity. "Do you mind?" He glared over his shoulder at John, grabbing his bath towel and wrapping it hastily around his waist, then turning to face John.

John was both baffled and amused. "You walk around stark naked in a sheet, yet you're embarrassed for me to see your pants? Really?"

Sherlock huffed. "This is different." The 'obviously' was clearly implied.

John rolled his eyes and smiled. "Come on, turn around. Pretty sure there's an extra fee for blood on the bed linen."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but did as he was asked. Sure enough, the abrasion was slowly oozing out droplets of blood, which were starting to form a patchy scab across the skin. It was sure to be full of bacteria. John retrieved a glass of water from the ensuite and carefully cleaned off the crusted blood, gave the wound a quick, but thorough, swipe with an alcohol swab, Sherlock hissing at the sting, and applied the largest plaster in his kit, which just covered the spot.

"There you are," he announced, pleased with his handiwork, and Sherlock turned to face him again.

"While you're at it..." said Sherlock, holding out both hands, palms down. He had three barked knuckles and several smaller scratches scattered across the backs of his hands. 

John tutted disapprovingly. "Do you even notice when you do these things to yourself?"

"Transport."

"Right."

With another alcohol swab and several small sticking plasters, John soon had his friend's hands in better shape. He couldn't help admiring the long, graceful fingers as he worked, though he tried not to make it obvious, and once he'd finished Sherlock smiled briefly and said to him, "Your turn." John looked at him quizzically.

Sherlock reached for his right wrist and pulled John's arm up to display his elbow. "I take it you didn't notice this?" John craned his neck to look, and sure enough, there was a decent-sized scrape on his elbow, that he did not remember getting.

Sherlock tended to the scrape carefully, as John had done for him, but when John was about to thank him and pack up his first-aid kit Sherlock held up a hand to stop him. "Just a moment, you've got another one."

"Another? Where?"

"Right here." Sherlock slipped his warm fingers between John's left arm and his chest, lifting the arm out of the way. John looked and sure enough, there was a long ragged scratch over his ribs from a twig that had also managed to draw a little blood in its passing.

"How on earth did you notice-- no, no, never mind. I didn't say that," John corrected himself, smiling a bit sheepishly, glad that Sherlock's face didn't develop its familiar smug expression in response. No, his expression wasn't smug at all; it was actually quite... intent. John became suddenly, awkwardly aware of the intensity of Sherlock's uniquely penetrating gaze as it was fixed on him, and he almost shivered when the long fingers smoothed over the sensitive skin under his arm. Despite the intensity of the eyes, the rest of Sherlock's face looked quite neutral to John, even when their eyes met for a few seconds.

Sherlock drew his hand away and looked at it. "Still bleeding," he murmured.

John held very still for the remainder of the treatment, and he could almost have sworn that Sherlock allowed his hands to linger a little longer on John's skin than was strictly necessary. Almost. Despite the gentle attentiveness of his hands, Sherlock's sphinx-like expression revealed nothing, and the pair of them were soon in their beds, Sherlock sound asleep and John lying awake, wondering.

* * *

Sherlock ran down the dock at full speed, hoping to catch the boat before it could move out into the relative safety of the Thames. He slowed not a mite upon reaching the end of the wooden platform, but took a flying leap after the retreating stern of the small boat. John reached the end of the dock just as Sherlock's feet made contact with the vessel.

His shoes slipped on the water-slick surface, and John's breath caught when it appeared that he would plunge into the river, but he managed to grab on to the edge with both arms as he went down, clinging as best he could. The boat was too far into the water now for John to try to follow by a jump of his own, and he was just debating whether to steal a boat himself, or to try to run along the river's edge, when the man they were after appeared suddenly from out the boat's wheelhouse.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, as the detective had not yet noticed his adversary's presence. Sherlock's head shot up upon hearing his name, but it was too late for him to do more than slightly deflect the blow when a fist came at his face. He seemed dazed for a moment, and the other man quickly struck him again. Sherlock's arms went limp and he sank beneath the surface of the chilly water.

"Shit!" John cursed, and shucked his jacket and shoes off as quickly as he could before diving into the dark river after his friend. He could see the shadowy form drifting downward and, intensely glad they hadn't made it far from shore, he hooked an arm under one of Sherlock's, kicking with all his strength to break the surface.

He managed to keep Sherlock's face out of water until they reached the shore, where John hauled his heavy burden as far as he could up onto the mud of the shore line, the waterlogged wool greatcoat making his task twice as difficult as it would have been otherwise. Sherlock was not breathing.

John had no time to determine whether Sherlock had a pulse or not, and began chest compressions immediately. "Come on, breathe!" John shouted at him, compressing Sherlock's ribs as much as he dared, which was quite a damn lot.

Sherlock's lips were losing colour and he showed no sign of stirring. Panic beating like a drum in his heart, John did the only other thing he knew might help and tipped Sherlock's head back, pinched his nose shut, and forced a breath into his lungs. Nothing. He tried again, the lips cold and tasting of dirt.

Sherlock's chest suddenly heaved and his eyes came open, taking several moments to focus on John's face. He at last took a massive gasp of a breath and rolled away from John, hacking and coughing desperately, finally vomiting water a few times, then collapsed in the mud, coughing weakly. 

John let out a deep sigh of relief and leaned against Sherlock, only now noticing how completely covered in mud they both were.

"My coat is ruined," Sherlock complained mildly.

"You vain prick," John replied, only half-joking.

~

Once they were safe back in Baker Street, following an apologetic text to Lestrade, a trip to hospital, and Mrs. Hudson's insistence on wrapping them in blankets and cooking them supper, John found he had energy sufficient to sit and sip a cup of tea, and nothing else. Sherlock was managing tea and a book despite his near-drowning and pugilistic session, and John was just about to snap at him to knock it off and let his poor battered brain rest, when Sherlock looked up from his reading. The skin around his left eye was swollen and starting to turn several shades of purple.

"How many times have you performed artificial respiration on a patient?" Sherlock asked John, his expression serious.

John shrugged non-committally, but couldn't quite keep disappointment from his face, thinking that this was going to be some kind of critique. "A few times." He licked his lips nervously, waiting for the effort he'd made to be torn down.

Sherlock sipped his tea and was thoughtful for a moment. "I only bring it up to thank you for saving my life. Again. I should also mention that I admire your technique and wish to offer myself as a practise partner any time you might like to refresh your skills," Sherlock said, a small smirk catching his lips, mischief darting almost imperceptibly across his features.

Once John got over the shock of Sherlock being complimentary rather than critical, he realised that he'd just been openly flirted with. By his apparently sexually-disinterested flatmate. His incredibly fit, apparently sexually-disinterested flatmate - and _best_ mate - who was always touching him for no legitimate reason. Sherlock had returned to his reading, his gaze pasted to the book he held open in his lap, and he looked as calm, disinterested, and neutral as he did on any other day of the year. What was hiding under that mask of his??

Sherlock's gaze was abruptly lifted from his book when a strong, confident hand placed itself under his chin, forcing his head up. He had no time to react before John's lips were pressed hard against his own, John's unique scent overwhelming him, his teeth biting fiercely at Sherlock's lips. The kiss was determined and unapologetic, like the hand that held his face in position.

When John at last pulled back, Sherlock was flushed and smiling in a really unguarded, silly way that John had seen only once or twice before. It was adorable, in John's well-considered opinion, and he leaned back in to claim what he now knew was, without a doubt, his. This conviction was confirmed by the way Sherlock melted beneath his touch, falling back against the chair and allowing John to climb on top and fully control the kiss.

John let all of his pent up frustration, fear, and anger seep through into his kisses, likely giving Sherlock additional bruises for his collection, but Sherlock didn't protest or even try to move away; he accepted it all - every bite to his neck or mouth, every too-hard squeeze from John's hands, every domineering pull of his hair. It pleased John immensely to have him just as he wanted him, for once - none of this leaping off things into the jaws of death without so much as a warning, much less a request for John's opinion on the idea.

"You idiot bastard. You could have died," John said against his lips.

"Not with you next to me," Sherlock murmured in reply. His eyes at that moment were more openly expressive than John had ever seen them, and they spoke of full, consummate trust, just as his pliant body did beneath John's hands. 

John realised with a sudden clarity that Sherlock did not allow himself to be touched by others, did not touch them; touch was something he tolerated or used to his advantage, and nothing more. Mycroft had implied as much, at the palace. Barring handshakes, John could count the number of times he had seen Sherlock willingly make physical contact with another person on both his hands. If he excluded himself, of course.

John looked down at the painful grip he currently had on Sherlock's shoulder and was filled with a rising tide of emotion. He released his hold and leaned back slightly, taking a moment to fully appreciate the novelty of the form that lay unresistingly beneath him. Sherlock did not move at all, but continued looking back up at him, waiting patiently for whatever he would do next, and the reality of that nearly undid John completely. He leaned in close, willing the tears to stay in his eyes, and placed as gentle a kiss as he could manage on Sherlock's lips, then spoke softly in his ear: "I'm sorry I took so long to catch on." He now used his hands to caress, not to claim.

"Why would I expect anything else?" Sherlock replied, in a half-arsed attempt at his typical smug superiority. But his words had no bite, no conviction, and when John looked at his face, it was written with an intensity of tenderness that John would have found hard to believe, were he not witnessing it right in front of him. The mask was gone.

Sherlock revelled in the marvellous feeling of John touching him; it hardly mattered to him whether the touches were hard or soft, rough or gentle - _more_ was all he wanted, more of this man who had walked into his life and made it complete with his presence. Sherlock had never imagined that he would ever want someone the way he wanted John: mind, body, and soul; the feeling had crept up on him in the several days after he'd first laid eyes on John and realised that he was looking at the other half of himself; someone who could strengthen his weaknesses, push him to new heights, and hold him back when he was about to step into disaster. He had never met anyone who wanted what he had to give, until John. And so he offered John everything that he possibly could.

First, his mind. That was always his first test with anyone new: could they handle the depth, speed, and labyrinthine complexity of who he really was? He had learned the painful lesson when he was younger that most people would never truly see him as he was, would indeed be frightened by what he was because they could not comprehend it. He had spent a few years making great effort to conceal his mental effulgence, but this had had very little effect on his ability to charm others into liking him, and he had given it up as useless. John had not comprehended him any more than the average person walking down the street, at least not initially, but John had something that others did not, and that was the ability to appreciate the value of things he did not quite understand. Being appreciated was such a rare occurrence for Sherlock that John's admiration had easily broken through the wall that guarded his heart, and he found himself happy for the breach.

His heart had been the next thing he had offered to John, as soon as he was sure of John's respect. He had shared his work with John - his greatest passion - and had not been turned down, but enthusiastically taken up on his offer. All of his excitement, his energy, his intense love for what he did, John had been more than ready to share in, and that was something that made Sherlock exquisitely happy, though he was careful to conceal his emotions. He had never been more perfectly satisfied than when he had John at his side on a case, every bit as interested in The Work as he himself was. To have someone to tell his thoughts and ideas to, someone who would genuinely listen and do his best to make a thoughtful response - heaven! He felt emotionally closer to John than he had to any other person in his life, even Victor, and it was this feeling that had prompted him to communicate his desire for physical closeness with John, as subtly as he could muster. But there was no need for subtlety any longer. 

Sherlock raised his head a little to give John a soft kiss on the lips, then made to rise from the chair. John moved aside to let him up and once on his feet Sherlock took hold of John's arm and pulled him along towards the sofa. John followed without a word.

Sherlock paused by the sofa, facing John, just looking into John's face with his intense gaze, before untying the sash of his dressing gown and letting the garment slip from his shoulders to pool on the floor at his feet. John almost held his breath as Sherlock then pulled his t-shirt over his head, exposing his lean, muscular form, his pale skin given some warmth by the room's yellow lamplight. Sherlock's eyes turned suddenly shy and avoided John's as Sherlock tucked his thumbs under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and pants and proceeded to slide those off as well, stepping nimbly out of them when they reached the floor. His eyes at last returned to John's as an intense flush overtook his face, neck, and upper chest. 

Had John anything to say, he would have been speechless, but as it was he was content to drink in the beautiful sight before him. The message could not have been clearer: I am - all of me - yours. 

Feeling faintly as though he would be chastised for it, like a six-year-old in an art museum, John stepped forward and placed his hands ever-so-softly on Sherlock's bare, white waist, the silky skin hot beneath his fingers. He stroked, tentatively at first, then with more confidence across the smooth planes of Sherlock's body, savouring the small shivers he aroused as his sleeves tickled Sherlock's sides. Their eyes met again, and John took in the more visible of Sherlock's injuries, considering that not even the bruising looked out of place at this moment; it was simply a dash of colour on the marble of his skin. 

John thought he might melt under the heat of Sherlock's gaze, but he held it, raising a hand to brush his thumb over a reddened cheek bone, then slipping the hand behind Sherlock's neck and pulling him close for a kiss. John's other arm tugged them flush together and Sherlock purred an enthusiastic "Mmmmmm!" against John's mouth in response, Sherlock's arms winding their way around John in a possessive embrace. John allowed the hand on Sherlock's waist to slide further down the man's body until he could take a firm grip of a small, pert buttock.

By the time they broke the kiss, John was fully aroused, and he didn't need deductive ability to see that Sherlock was in the same state. This gave him pause. Near-drowning was no walk in the park; the sustained lack of oxygen had put massive stress on Sherlock's entire system, but most of all his brain and heart. The blows to the head had also undoubtedly done real damage, given that they had dazed him to the point that he lost consciousness in the water. John's medical opinion was that Sherlock needed at least week without heavy physical or mental activity, to give his body time to repair what had been put awry. The direction the two of them were heading was not in his prescription. He took a step back from Sherlock, who immediately used the additional space to begin trying to remove John's pyjamas, but John caught his hands and pulled them away from his clothes.

Sherlock looked perplexed at the apparent about-face, so John enlightened him as to what was going on.

"Not tonight; you've got a headache."

The look Sherlock gave him then would have withered an entire flowerbed, but John simply smirked at him, and with a fond stubbornness refused to release Sherlock's hands, which were trying to get free to resume their task. John wanted this every bit as much as Sherlock did, was aching for it, frankly, but he wasn't about to risk Sherlock's health for the sake of haste. 

"John," Sherlock said, imbuing the word with all of the protest and pleading (pleading? Pleading!) that John had not known was in his repertoire. When John carried on in his stolid resistance, Sherlock got creative and pressed himself close to John again, hands still trapped, trying for another kiss. John suppressed a wide smile and turned his face away, saying, "Sherlock, look, the last thing your circulatory and nervous systems need right now is an orgasm. For all I know you have a mild concussion. If you have even a little bit of bleeding going on in there, we do not want to make it worse. Are you listening?"

Sherlock had spun them around and was now manoeuvring John in the direction of his bedroom. "We'll figure something out. Come," he urged, tugging John's hands. His eyes were alight now not only with all of the swirling emotions that were so new to John, but now with a more familiar expression: Problem-Solver Sherlock. Of course Sherlock would figure out a way to make it work, John thought, mentally rolling his eyes at himself. _That's what he does._

He followed.

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Edit 4th Oct '15 - TheGayDivorcee remarked in her/his bookmark: "It says autistic Sherlock, but all I see is intelligent and practical Sherlock."
> 
> Exactly my point with this story. :-) It's about an autistic character, but it is not about his autism.


End file.
